Everlong
by vlora
Summary: Trent is stuck in a cycle, and he can't find a way out. Also, Daria is hot. (Oneshot. General Daria/Trent feelings. Post-series, set within the Lane household. An examination of the characters, from Trent's PoV.)


**AN:** This was written with the song Everlong by Foo Fighters (acoustic version), on repeat. Because that is how I do things. It is very appropriate, and I encourage you to listen to it while you read.

* * *

Trent had plenty locked away between his ribs, songs, words, feelings, but it was loose and vague. He felt the throb of his temple, and the swirl of his guts, but neither of these sensations he could explain.

The Lane family prided itself on the creative types, and on freedom. It made it difficult to express himself, without it a shallow subjugation to his parents.

Each gesture of individuality garnered praise, or indifference. There was no way to rebel against those who encouraged rebellion, if they listened at all. No matter how hard he pushed with his pen, or how deep he dug. He never felt that release that came with a creation; not like he had when he was younger.

Younger was a stupid way to think about it, he knew. He was twenty-two, though his debt and his slouch made him seem older. There was all this music and life locked up inside him, and he could feel it, and it was agony. He felt like an idiot when he tried to write it out, and he felt like a loser when he thought about a life without music.

The worst rebellion he could commit in the face of his parents was to take a desk job. A job would soothe the screeches from his ex-girlfriend. Each time they rejoined, in sex or in whatever else, it always boiled down to a family, and an apartment, and a job.

A job for Trent, that is. Monique insisted that she was creative enough for the both of them. Trent considered the style of a tie and a suit, but he'd sooner jump off a bridge than jump to a desk.

Not for the man, anyway.

"Trent?"

The voice was level and familiar, but not Jane. Trent turned his head enough to look at the door, eyebrow cocked as he saw Daria. He looked her over, with no question about how she had gotten into the house.

"The door wasn't locked."

"Never is." Trent shrugged, as a smile kicked the corner of his lips aside.

"Reassuring." Daria returned the smile, albeit brief compared to him. "Uh, so, Jane was supposed to be here. Did she vanish?"

"She went to, uh, some art store. She was outta glue." Trent adjusted across the bed, one arm set across his forehead as he looked to the ceiling. His eyes slid shut, his lips still pushed into a smile. "You're welcome to wait. There's food downstairs, maybe. I don't know."

If Daria responded, he didn't hear or see it. He was too dedicated to this funk, not by choice. It had taken hold of his insides and twisted them into shapes, so much so that he'd be surprised if he remained whole. He shifted again, like he was in a nightmare that he was forced into.

There was silence, save for his forced, rythmic breathing, in time with the low ebb of the stereo. It was a Foo Fights album, a slower song, the kind that sucked the venom out of Trent's veins. It was the song he listened to whenever he broke up with Monique, or when Monique broke up with him.

"You okay?"

"It's whatever, y'know."

"I guess."

Trent opened his eye, the one closer to the door. Daria remained, straight posture and attention turned away. She looked like she was a vampire, unable to enter without an invitation. He drew in a resolute breath, to push himself up from the bed. "Why, do I seem like I'm not okay?"

Daria was in motion, as she shrugged and leaned against the doorframe. She crossed her arms, her chin dipped down, her attention now fixed on a rotted sandwich. Trent thought it was a sandwich, anyway. He had meant to throw it away, but he had forgotten about it. He felt like a slob, and all the worse for how Daria looked at it.

"Science experiment?" Daria glanced to Trent.

Trent shrugged, and stood. He walked over to one of the crappy shopping bags he'd brought home when he'd last bought whiskey. He flourished it, to open it better, so he could pour the rotten sandwich into it. He snatched up a few foil wrappers, from candy bars to condoms, and felt his stomach bottom out.

"Nah, just lazy." He laughed, which broke into a cough. He looked up to Daria after he'd cleaned some of it away, ashamed more than anything. He always got that feeling when she looked at him, like every wrinkle in his shirt and zit on his face felt magnified.

"I prefer electively stagnant."

"Heh, I should use that."

Daria smiled, which was a sight in itself. There was no teeth, not like she was out to impress. Her smile was a slope, lifted like the Mona Lisa's smile. Even now it was more an interpretation than a representation of her happiness. And, unless he was delusional, her face looked redder than before. It could be the heat of summer, with how hot the Lane household got. He had meant to get the air conditioner fixed, but hadn't.

Not yet. But he would.

"Why'd you ask if I was okay?"

"You were awake." Daria nodded to the stereo. "Also, the music is a dead giveaway."

Trent tied the top of the plastic bag, to lob it into the corner. He would take it out later, when he went out to meet up with the guys. He had missed them, with how much he'd seen Monique these past few weeks.

"Yeah, I guess I'm okay, like, I'm alive, so that's pretty good."

"I'm not gonna force you to talk about it." Daria stood up from against the doorframe, her head tilted a fraction. "You always try to help me out, so I figured it was fair if it went both ways."

"Huh." Trent paused as he sorted over a scrap of fabric. It was once a blanket, but had been so moth eaten that it looked like a piece of swiss cheese. He balled that up to toss it into the corner, his head dropped. "It's nothin' new. Crappy breakup, tired as hell because of it, not any better for it... It's like, a cycle, and I'm too stupid to learn from it."

Daria listened, but he could see her expression shift. He could tell she disapproved of his words, even without any of her own. She was subtle, and soft, but so sharp he wouldn't cross her.

"What?" He raised a brow, to encourage words from her.

"You're not stupid." Daria stated, simple and sharp as he had expected. "But, a break up? With?"

Trent grinned, more at her eagerness to defend him from himself than her question. "Monique. Again."

"Either you like her, or you dislike yourself."

"Guess so." Trent stilled his hands against the shirt he had folded, a band shirt he'd gotten from a gig. He settled onto the bed, leg folded around and his head downturned. He shrugged a shoulder, as he continued to pick at the crap on the floor.

"Why are you cleaning?"

Trent shrugged again, to kick at another shirt. He snagged it from the toe of his boot, attention still focused downward. "Dunno." He heard the approach, though it took him by surprise. There was a crinkle of an old water bottle, and metal as a flask collidied with an old can. He looked up to her, lips turned downward.

"Okay, really, you seem... So you broke up with Monique - what else is wrong?"

"You really care, huh?"

"Yeah, I do." Daria replied, cool as anything. "You know I wouldn't ask if I didn't care."

"No, I feel like I'm drowning all the time, in the stuff I can't make work. I've gotten good at bein' alright, y'know. Okay, but not ever more than okay."

Daria prompted him with a raise of her brow, as if she needed more to understand him. When he got into these moods, where nothing would relieve him, he broke down into word vomit.

"I want to do something, but I don't know what. I write songs, but they don't work, and I'm just..." Trent pushed at the shirts, to ditch them onto the bed. He crossed his arms over his knee, fingers dug into his forearms, neck strained as he looked up to Daria. "Like I'm a trained animal, on a merry-go-round, just, circling."

"So you're bored?"

"I guess, yeah. It's the usual stuff day in, day out. Mystik Spiral is okay, not great, I keep doing the same stupid crap week after week, like... Like I'm not getting any better, I'm only getting deader." Trent shrugged again, his posture slid as he did so.

Daria had kicked aside a few things, though she kept to the clear path he had bore through the junk. She stood before him, hands furled and unfurled at her sides, jaw set. "Better question then; what do you not want?"

"Huh?"

"You want to make music, and you want to express yourself. So, okay, you know what you want, right?"

Trent scrubbed his hand across his five o'clock shadow, brows furrowed. "Yeah, yeah."

"So, what do you not want?"

"I don't want to waste my life in Lawndale." Trent snapped, immediate. "I don't want to keep circling the drain, like I'm destined to die here. I don't wanna watch Mystik Spiral circle jerk and screw around anymore." Trent sighed, hearty, unsure of where this aggression came from. Or, not so uncertain. It was all there, beneath the surface of his apathy. "I don't want Monique around if she's gonna talk shit about the people I care about. About my family, my friends..."

Daria looked over his room, wall to wall, her arms crossed in front of her. "Once Jane goes to college, you could get out of Lawndale. So, aim for that."

Trent felt a deep pang in his stomach, his arm reflexive across his midsection. He felt about ready to hurl, but the sensation passed. It was close to when someone suckerpunched you in the gut, but somehow worse. He pushed it aside, as best he could, to look at Daria again.

"Um, I didn't mean to upset you." Daria had stepped back, a grit toothed frown on her face.

"No, you didn't." Trent smiled, though his wince remained. "A lot is gonna change soon. I think that's what's the worst part, the waiting. Jane's gonna be gone, and you'll be gone, too."

There was silence, aside from the stereo. There was the strum of a guitar, and the low, cautious voice of the singer. He had the quality Trent wished he possessed. While he rasped and dragged each sound out, there was an honesty to the record that he found inspiring.

Daria remained, her heavy boots atop an old garbage bag. There was nothing in it, not as far as he knew. His room was a minefield, if the foil wrappers were any sign.

"Sorry for all this." Trent gestured, to himself, to his room.

"It's okay, Trent." Daria drew her inner cheek between her teeth, as she toed some clothes aside. "You should clean your room sometime, though. Might make you feel better."

Teent laughed, until he realized she was serious. "My parents never really made me clean my room."

"It's not about them, it's about you, and your space." Daria stepped back, towards the door. "You should have a space you'd be eager to create in - that's what all the self-help people say. I just can't work if my room is too messy."

"Really?"

"My mother wouldn't let me live if I let my room get to this point." Daria smiled, despite the pointedness of her words. She crossed her arms, head dipped down to disguise her expression. "I don't care either way. Just, you should do what you want to, and really think about what you want. You're a talented guy, Trent, and you've got the passion. You need more than passion, though."

Trent felt as if his head would fall off, for how fucking nice it was to hear that come from Daria of all people. She had an infinite number of barbs laced along her tongue, and she offered them without thought. Here, now, she chose to offer support when she had every right to tell him to get lost.

"You're talented, too." Trent fixed his gaze on her, despite how she wanted to hide. "I hear plenty of your stuff from Janey, and that graduation speech you gave was awesome."

Daria allowed her arms to drop away, her smile clearer. "You didn't even attend your own graduation. How'd you manage to remember ours?"

"I make it when it counts."

The silence returned, and Trent looked across the floor. From there he glared at his junk scattered around, at all the things he said he'd deal with later. There was never going to be a later, he realized. He put off everything, and continued to commit to the same mistakes. He dragged his hand through his hair, before he looked to Daria.

"Hey."

Daria had been between himself and the door, in awkward motion as she seemed uncertain of where to stand. She met his eye now, her eyes so brown they were black. He hadn't noticed it before, and had always thought they were brown, or green, or whatever.

The call was enough to get her still, but it didn't pull her back to him. If anything, it emphasized the distance. There was a few pairs of old jeans, all too torn to be clothes, and they would have to go, too. Everything in his room had to go.

But not her.

"How d'you clean your room?"

Daria laughed, and Trent almost cried. Maybe it was lame to wax poetical, but he didn't give a shit if it was. Her laugh was this sudden, surprised sound, like she hadn't allowed herself to burst in years.

He watched wide eyed as she saw it through, the apples of her cheeks still red from the sight of some condom wrappers. It was too bad for her that her giant glasses weren't big enough to hide her face.

"First of all, you need to start a pile of stuff to throw out. Or to throw at Quinn." Daria grinned, and he had never felt so close to someone. He had seen a fair few women naked, sure, but he'd never seen anyone so exposed. "That corner can be the throw out pile."

Trent tore his attention away, to toss the jeans in front of him aside. He looked to Daria, expectant, like she was the guide in his journey to happiness. She may as well be, for how alive he felt.

"You think it'll help?" Trent asked, unsure eyes settled onto the work ahead of him.

"You clean up your room enough, you might find some stuff to pawn. You can use that money to pay for gas, to come visit Jane and I."

Trent kept his smile in place. It was small, a token of an idea, but it was something. It was a guide, to get him out of Lawndale and out of this cycle. He fumbled over an old leather jacket, his fingers nervous within the fabric. He was a level-headed guy, and he held that dear to him. But as he got older, he realized that life shifted he shifted, and so it made sense that his wants would shift, too.

"You're a cool chick, Daria."

"I'm feeling pretty hot right now, but thanks." Daria paused. "Hot, 'cause the heat, not..."

Trent was deep into a laugh before she had a chance, so far beyond the point of return. He could see the blush return to her face, but she seemed more open than usual. Whenever she blushed before, before Tom, she got quiet and would turn inwards. Now, he only saw the blood boil up in her face and her smile become lethal.

"Shut up."

"You are hot, though. Glad you can admit it." Wait, fuck. "Like, not - "

It was Daria's turn to revel, it seemed. From her locked joints and tense nerves, she softened, her face still as red as Trent felt his had grown. He never felt older than Daria, not once in all the time he had known her. It only got worse now, with the discussion of college, and this was a trainwreck incarnate.

"Not actually hot." Daria completed, eyebrow raised. "It's fine."

"No, you are hot." Trent shot her a look, as if angry with her dismissal. He straightened his posture as much as he could, eyebrow raised. He shrugged a shoulder, as if to ask what she would do about it.

"I don't need pity."

"You're hot." Trent repeated, almost childish in his delivery. It had been something he'd gotten close to in the past, on Dega Street, and at a few gigs. Hell, he'd even offered to date her, the last time he'd broken off with Monique. This was part of the cycle, a triangle of Trent and Monique, with a spike to the side where Daria sat.

Daria seemed perturbed, but not in the way he expected. He expected her to let out a surprised sound and then run. Instead, Daria stood her ground without a shift to her expression. She watched him, idle and quiet, her arms slack at her sides.

"What?"

"You." Daria said, straight faced. "Just, you."

Trent looked downwards, as if he had sprouted a third arm from his chest like an alien burster. Once satisfied he had the correct number of arms and legs, he frowned back to Daria.

"What's actually wrong?"

Trent narrowed his eyes, as confused as before. "I dunno."

"I liked you, Trent. But, I got older, we talked it through, I got past that. Do you want me to like you still? Are you seeking validation, of someone interested in you?" Daria asked this, flat-toned and simple in her delivery.

"No?"

"So what is it?"

Trent wished it was cooler, so he could at least will himself outside. He was not going to leave the house in close to a hundred degree heat. Instead he felt trapped in his sweltering room, with Daria who looked ready to strangle him.

"You make me want to try." Trent stated, plain and quiet, his nose wrinkled. "I spend five minutes with you, and I wanna clean up my act, get my shit together, try to be better, y'know?"

Daria frowned.

"I feel pretty okay most of the time, just hanging out, drinking, smoking, whatever. But then I see you, at our gigs, or here, and I just... I realize how I'm stuck here at the same shows, with the same people, closer to a grave than a career." Trent nudged aside an old guitar case full of Mystik Spiral CDs. It slid sideways, and spilled onto the floor.

"You're goin' places, Daria. So, I don't wanna put my crap onto you. it's not like I can... Like I can expect you to keep pushing me, y'know? I can't be someone who takes all the time. I wanna be someone who gives. So - I dunno. You're hot, even if you're gonna hate me for sayin' it. You're hot 'cause you're just, you."

Daria took to the guitar case, to tuck away the CDs that spilled out. She offered no response, not to any of it. Her head remained bowed down, and Trent felt better. It was cathartic, to speak in such plain words. He had felt it since the Tank broke down on the way to Alternapalooza, where he'd been alone with Daria. She wasn't the prettiest girl he had ever met, but who the fuck even cared about that, anyway.

Daria was slim and small, with giant boots and glasses, and an attitude that ground you down. He enoyed her caustic wit and her direct words, and how she had a dumb Mark Twain shirt she wore to bed. There was an unapologetic edge to her, no matter what she did, and he envied that.

The more he learned about her, and the more he got to know her family, her future, the worse it got for him. He had nothing to lose, not now. He had cut off Monique for how much she took from him, and he wanted to move forward. Daria would go off to college, and Trent would go wherever the hell he wanted to.

Or Trent would remain in Lawndale, a thought that caused his chest to lock up.

"You give me plenty, Trent."

"Huh?"

Daria got up from the guitar case, the CDs all packed away neat and tidy. "You've helped me in the past, and you've given me good advice. You've helped me understand things, too. It's not all take," she said, eyes focused downward. "I think with enough practice and effort, you could make Mystik Spiral work, even if it stays a smaller project. But you're going to do something."

"You think so?"

"You've helped me. I don't doubt there's other people out there you could help, too." Daria shrugged, her shoulders folded inward and her chest turned downward.

Trent reached out, index finger caught under her chin. He smiled down at her, and recognized the moment. It flowed into place, despite the sweltering heat and the rasp of the stereo. He stooped down and she pressed upwards, and they interlocked.

At first it awkward, a clash of glasses into his eyebrow, then into his nose. He laughed, nose wrinkled in amusement. He slipped the glasses upwards, out of the way, to find a real kiss.

Because what the hell, Trent will watch her go off to college with a smile. He had gotten her at least once, at least for a moment.

There was a hand at his shirt, to cement his exaggerated stoop and tilted head. It took him by surprise, how once the glasses were out of the picture just how smooth it was. There was the softness of her lips, and the momentary touch of teeth, but otherwise solid. Warm, like the air around them, but worse.

His arm snaked around her waist, his hand fastened to the back of the jacket. There was a few bits of crap between them, which he kicked aside, so they could collide. Whatever control he had left him when she nipped his lip. It was enough to cause a jump down his spine, and then some.

"Always the quiet ones." Trent mumbled.

Daria snorted, a tangible shake of her head. Their foreheads met, gently, where Trent was too afraid to open his eyes. He hadn't expected this, and hadn't aimed for it, but he wanted this. If only once, and for a moment, he needed to get this into his system. And, after she was gone, he'd let it out of his system, too.

At least there would be a release, in some way.

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 **END NOTES:**

This is a quick note to say I appreciate you reading! Please consider leaving kudos or a comment. I also have other Daria & Trent works available, if you are interested. I really enjoy their dynamic, and what they bring out in one another. Also, this is a Daria who has been with Tom for a year, so something like a kiss isn't going to trip her up. I may do more, or a part two, but it felt like a nice note to end it on.


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